Tag: Writing

The feminine critique

Much has been written about Miss Universe Canada’s decision to remove Jenna Talackova from the Miss Universe Canada Competition.

According to the organization, Ms. Talackova was barred from competing because, “She did not meet the requirements to compete despite having stated otherwise on her entry form.”

You see, in order to qualify as a Miss Universe Canada contestant, individuals must be:

• a Canadian citizen

• between the age of 18 and 27

• neither pregnant nor married

• a “natural born” female (also a requirement of every other Miss Universe pageant).

Natural born females, eh? Sounds like an Oliver Stone production that never made it past the drawing board.

Now, the absurdity of these rules isn’t the main reason I am writing this post.

That I believe Ms. Talackova should be able to compete in the pageant is a truth – not only does she identify as a women (and has since the age of four) but legally (like – BY LAW PEOPLE) she is a woman.

Period. (No pun intended.)

Hence, she should qualify.

The fact of the matter remains that we, as a society, are missing the much bigger problem at hand.

The real issue is the fact that we’re living in the twenty-first century and beauty pageants are things that actually still exist.

I don’t know if I can think of anything more ridiculous, antiquated and painfully sexist that marching a bunch of women across a stage and marking them on how well they model a bikini.

Or evening gown.

And don’t even get me on those events that try to promote some level of “legitimacy” because they have a talent component.

You’re going to tell me that some washed up NBA star, or some hate-mongering gossip columnist is going to be able to (competently!) judge between a Mozart-penned aria and a baton twirling routine? A Schubert fugue in A minor and a rhythmic gymnastics programme?

Give me a break. No, give me all the breaks.

To me, the choice to include a talent section and then market the event as progressive is basically akin to the organizers trying to frame their competition as the Diet Coke of beauty pageants.

Let’s call it “sexism lite.”

But it’s not like they’re any better than the original product (which would be Coke, or “sexism original” if you will.)

Both are still responsible for reinforcing highly destructive, prescriptive, and dangerous gender norms.

Or, to go back to the drink analogy – having some kind of special skill component in your competition might spare you from contracting diabetes, but don’t kid yourself, you’re still going to develop that brain tumor.

I mean come on. At the root of it, both propagate the socially accepted, (nay institutionalized) notion that all woman everywhere must first and foremost be judged on the way they look.

Good thing because goodness knows that’s a movement that needs all the help it can get.

For more information please see:

I am of the mind that we should just make it so that no women EVER are allowed to enter these contests.

Because then, finally, we could add them to that special collection in our planet’s attic (you know that trash bag labelled “what the hell where we thinking?”) along with Lysol douching products, lead based makeup (which I’m actually afraid isn’t so much a thing of the past), and shoulder pads.

Another reason why I loathe these competitions is the (always brutal) question and answer component of the evening.

The women stand there in their bedazzled gowns, smiling as if their lives depended on it, calculating how they will be able to answer a question without really, you know, answering the question.

It’s like a bloody political debate all of a sudden appears and sets up shop on stage. Afraid of alienating voters, the contestants must find creative ways of filling up their allotted thirty seconds by not really saying anything.

And as such, none of the contestants ever give a real, heartfelt response.

This, I imagine, is in part due to the fact that they know that 1.) Unfortunately, the majority of the audience has no interest is what they really think, 2.) should they go out on a limb and speak their mind, the chance that this choice would come back and bite them is huge (both during the competition, or throughout their careers post-pageant, and 3.) the rule of the game is please everyone, so try your best not to rock the boat, and just give an answer that is non-threatening and easy to digest.

Now, I take great issue with all of these points. But just thinking about number three makes me feel like tearing out my hair and setting fire to my entire wardrobe.

Because, these notions of having an opinion, but not being pushy about it; about pleasing others before yourself; of not rocking the boat with your convictions; about worrying about how others will perceive you and your ideas (and how they could impact your career) – these are behavioral mechanisms force fed to women, all around the world, all day, every day.

And to see them glamorized, (and celebrated!) on a local, provincial, national, international stage – well, that just demoralizes the heck out of me.

We should be celebrating actions over aesthetics; convictions and passions over rhetoric and clichés.

In the end, wanting world peace isn’t wrong.

But a system that dictates that one need qualify this want by looking good in bathing suit and providing proof of their “natural femininity” on national television IS wrong.

A competition that buys into this system and (dangerously) sells itself as some kind of measuring stick for femininity IS wrong.

And I know that as of this moment, I am really ready for something that is right.

Down in London town, I’m dancing by myself

Hi Friends!

Well, it’s all come to pass.

We have a sparkling, new, beautiful shower, and I managed to successfully attend a concert for the first time whilst flying solo.

Kaiser Chiefs are top-notch groovemeisters, so I pretty much just showed up, danced like a mad woman for an hour and a half, and then hit the road.

Oh my god, I can't believe it.

(The four glasses of wine I consumed before heading downtown may have had something to do with how easy the whole thing seemed. I’m normally a two-glass max kind of gal, so take this as you will.)

The one thing I will say was that I was a little bummed out about the fact that they hardly played any of their new material (or really anything from their catalogue post-2008.)

I've never been this far away from home.

They have so many fab songs other that those featured on Yours Truly – Angry Mob and I had been eager for the chance to hear them live.

For instance, I was gutted that they didn’t play Man on Mars, a tune that I have been pretty much listening to on repeat for the last two weeks. Seriously, it’s the first thing that finally managed to knock The Decembrist’s Calamity Song off of my top jam list.

Ch-ch-check it:

Ricky Wilson told the audience that Vancouver was their last stop on their tour, so they were probably pretty exhausted and burnt out and didn’t want to take on anything too taxing.

But overall, I must say I had a great time period, and there is always something to be said about going to a concert where you (and every other person in attendance) knows every lyric to every song that is played.

I’d give it a solid 8 out of 10 cats.

Ju-on girl dancing her heart out!

On my way home, sitting on the metro, I was trying to concentrate on anything other than the dull ringing in my ears, when a very young man sat down next to me.

The fellow was just a little too eager to strike up a conversation, so my spidey senses immediately started tingling.

Because I am a crazy weirdo, I did what I am often do in awkward situations – make them even more awkward (this time by speaking in a really terrible accent.)

This is hilarious to me, but probably insanely disconcerting to the other parties involved.

If I could muster up the appropriate amount of compunction I would, but then I always ask myself, what’s life without a little flare? A little intrigue?

So, egging myself on, I sometimes try out mein deutsche, and other times moya ruski.

This time I was from jolly old England.

Bah.

[adjusts monocle.]

Unfortunately, the dude was totally undeterred.

Even after I told him I was seven years older than him, he still asked me out.

Youth these days, I tell ya.

Either deliver my paper on time or get off my lawn!

I will give him props for gumption and guts, but needless to say, I will not be seeing him again.

(Until my next late night train ride, goodness knows.)

The next morning, I was moving a little slower than usual, due to the after effects of my solo dance party, finishing the bathroom, and the eleven kilometre run Mr. M and I completed during the previous day’s afternoon.

I figured the best thing to cure my Sunday sluggishness, was homemade crepes with fresh fruit, nutella, walnuts, whipped cream, and tea, devoured on our porch, basking in the warmth of the (long lost, and now finally found) sun’s rays.

Yum.

Edit: for one bloody day at least! It just makes me want to yell out: Come on Biscuit you can do it!!!

Erm.

I mean spring!

Come on spring, you can do it!

But at the time, it was, for lack of a more poetic descriptor, absolute bliss.

Bliss!

Then, M and I tore about our place, vacuuming like a vacuuming things, dusting, washing, scrubbing – wiping away all the dust that had accumulated over the course of our reno, encrusted in our corners and nestled in all the often missed nooks and crannies.

Seriously, nothing is as good as clean feels.

A friend of mine remarked, after reading my post from last Friday, that I would probably pick up a ton more traffic to my blog if I posted photos of myself doing mad cleaning in my underwear.

I’m not going to lie – I briefly considered this as I tore about our place, but in the end I decided it just wasn’t worth it.

That, like my English accent, should not be encouraged.

Not without copious amounts of wine, anyway.

Isn’t that right, guvnah?

Strange things I have done, seen, and want to do this week

DID: Washed my hair in the kitchen sink.

Okay, some background.

This is what my dining room looked like last night:

Stuff.

And this is what was going on in my living room:

More stuff.

Mr. M is currently Mr. Fix-it, which means we have no bathroom in our bathroom, and most things that will end up going in our new bathroom are sitting, or strewn about, where we normally eat dinner.

Phew.

And because I am incapable of operating at a normal level without washing my hair every day (because, dear readers, it is so very thin and so very fine, and because of how much I exercise , I cannot live without a daily shampooing) and because we had no tub – I washed my hair in the sink, where thirty minutes prior I had scrubbed two frying pans, a colander, two soup bowls and a spatula.

PHEW.

Needless to say, before I got down to business, the side of the sink that I used to wash my locks was scrubbed to an inch of its life.

(And because I’m lazy, I left the other side the way it was, with a dirty knife and spoon lying next to the scrub brush.)

URG.

CLASSY!

No joke I nearly broke my back and cricked my neck for all of Canada as I limbo-ed my way to clean hair.

Also, it is dang hard trying to get all the conditioner rinsed away, when your giant five foot ten body is unable to manoeuvre itself to allow for your stupid head to rest directly under the water stream.

For CANADA!

Also, it’s at times like this that I realize just how long my hair actually is (when I dye my hair from a box is also another great reminder of this.)

I might not have a lot of it, but it’s getting to the length where I start to feel like a mermaid when I get out of the shower.

Speaking of which, today I did something shower related I’ve never done before – for the first time I brought a change of clothes with me to the gym and showered as soon as I’ve finished working out.

I was a little nervous to check out the state of its facilities, what with how dodgy the place is overall.

But despite the exposed pipes, and broken fan, I have to say I was pleasantly surprised.

It was very clean, with good water pressure, and honestly, quite a large stall.

I don’t know if I’m going to start pulling this stunt on a daily basis, but during the time that I’m living in a house without resources for bathing (kitchen sink not included) it’s a good reserve to fall back on.

The only fly in the ointment being that between my regular gym gear that I schlep with me to work, and the extra shower stuff I had to add to my kit, today I was (and tomorrow I will be) a bag lady and a half.

And a half!

Alas, t’is the price you pay for cleanliness.

SAW: These Air Canada Ads

Okay, a while back I wrote a post about the first generation of these Air Canada ads, focusing on (what I thought to be) a very white-washed advertising campaign.

No.

Here you are, marketing flights to large, Asian cities (each one, need I point out, very different from the other) and you have an all white cast, some of which are dressed in non-descript “Asian” dress, or holding chopsticks, or, what is that, practicing some kind of martial art?

No.

Jeeze Louise.

It’s painful just looking at them.

Seriously, has one person who worked on this campaign done any of the following?

  1. Gone to Hong Kong/Beijing/Seoul
  2. Looked at the majority of individuals flying back and forth between Vancouver and these cities, and then bothered to notice what they looked like.
  3. Gone out anywhere in the Lower Mainland and registered that its population is incredibly diverse, and not in fact racially homogenous.

It just boggles my mind (and also makes me laugh, because believe-you-me folks, I used to work at the airport and I’m very well versed will all of these Air Canada flights, and I know who is travelling on them, and it doesn’t matter if they are Canadian, Chinese, or Korean, but the average traveller does not look like this:

NO.

And I’m not saying that they cannot use white models in their campaign, but a little variety wouldn’t kill them either.

At the very least it wouldn’t make them look so casually racist, and overwhelmingly tone deaf.

Seriously.

WANT TO DO: Make out with Richard Hammond.

Because I am an ENFJ (extrovert, intuitive, feeling, and judging) on the Myers Briggs personality test, change to my regular routine is something I try to avoid at all costs. So as you can imagine, when I’m confronted by minor disturbances (such as having no working bathtub) my rabid need to control everything (and then not being able to do so) drives me a bit batty.

But just a bit.

In an attempt to help me calm down, I have been watching episodes of Top Gear on Netflix, drinking hot chocolate, and eating thousands of mini marshmallows.

I just started watching the show last week, and oh boy is it funny.

It hilarious and entertaining, and I enjoy Jeremy Clarkson’s acerbic wit, and it would be pretty fab to have the chance to play checkers against James May, sitting out on a lanai somewhere on Oahu’s North coast (in my imagination).

But mostly more than anything, I want to have a good old fashioned snog fest (in the parlance of his country) with Mr. Hammond (also in my imagination.)

Yes I did take this photo off of my tv. I have no shame.

He’s cute as hell, plus I get a kick out of the idea that in work shoes I’d be over half a foot taller than him. It would be just like every single high school dance I ever went to. Throw in some Mario Kart, late night McDonald’s runs, and a ton of laugh-fuelled bumbling and fumbling, and you pretty much have my grade eleven relationship down to a tee.

Plus – he’s from Brum, the city that owns a good chunk of my heart.

(And in terms of famous people who’ve come out of Birmingham, I’d definitely choose him over Frank Skinner and Ozzy Osborne.)

…

So there you have it folks.

DID. SAW. WANT TO DO.

And to finish off, if may ask, what are some weird things you’ve been up to this week? Seen anything barmy in the extreme? And who are you jonesing for a sweet, sweet lip-lock (if too, only in your imagination)?

Let me know, and I’ll think about it the next time I’m washing my hair (in or outside of my kitchen.)

An A for effort

Two years ago I was in writing hell.

I was in the process of finishing up my master’s thesis, and as such, was spending upwards of thirteen hours a day sitting in front my computer (and I use the term sitting pretty liberally, because for much of the time, I just contorted myself into the most back breaking positions imaginable to human kind – so much so that it’s really quite amazing I didn’t rework the entire curvature of my spine) writing a path dependent analysis of British and Canadian immigration policies and immigrant integration schemes, post-1945.

Nymeria was pretty much the best study partner I could have asked for.

Overall, I loved writing on the subject matter, loved my research (carried out both here in Canada and over in the UK), and very much loved the finished product.

Of course the million dollar question is, would have I said all this to you then?

Maybe.

Probably not.

What most likely would have happened instead, was that sometime during our conversation on the matter I would have either burst into tears, or begged you to go out and buy me a 7/11 apple fritter.

(Had you said either yes, or no, I probably still would have cried. From either disappointment or happiness – believe you me, those fat, salty sobs would have flowed.)

Sitting here, writing this today, with so much perspective on this event, it is pretty darn easy to talk about how great the whole experience was.

Nymeria is also here to remind me not to get completely delusional. She would like me to remember that at the time I was completely knackered. PLUS: Animal Print.

However at the time, I was a miserable wreck; as previously noted, my life was rife with high-drama crying fits, poor nutritional choices, and completely cringe-worthy, totally horrifying fashion statements.

If I only had one word to describe my dress sense for the first four months of 2010, it would be BRUTAL.

Just brutal.

I am disclosing this today, because I want to provide a different perspective (or palate cleanser if you will) from last Friday’s post.

I feel compelled point out that there have been times in my life where I have, on a daily basis, fashioned outfits that would have propelled me to the top of any worst dressed list out there.

Sometimes when I look at old photos, particularly of the early years Mr. M and I spent together as a couple, I often repeat to him, “Thank you so much for staying with me despite all the times I looked absolutely deranged.”

He normally just smiles, and dismisses my claims.

(Although, to be real here folks, if you take a second at the photos, he may be thinking along the same lines. We are a match made in (crazily dressed) heaven.)

But getting back to Thesisgate, 2010.

By the end of my scholarly run, things had gotten pretty darn bad.

Indeed, my closet had pretty much devolved into the following two outfits:

The first?

My pajamas.

The words on this sweater "who gives a hoot?" eventually became a short-lived life motto of mine.

Each morning I would wake up, and immediately begin writing. No shower. No bath. I would type away until about one o’clock, at which point I would eat a banana completely slathered in peanut butter, drink a pot of tea, and then have a massive, massive sweat-and-panic attack. To combat my massively rising anxiety, I would throw myself into different feats of strength, which sometimes meant push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups, but other times meant episodes of Gossip Girl.

After these exercises (in self-loathing), my garb would be sufficiently grodtastic, so I would take everything off, wash them, dry them, wash myself, dry myself, and then put the whole thing on again.

At the height of my efficiency, I probably had about three different sleeping ensembles on the go, none of which (I promise you) had a best before date that outlasted my defense date.

Blargh.

Outfit number two was my “Going Out Outfit.”

Now, at the beginning of January, this setup was at least a “semi-normal” ranking, on a scale from plain jane to absolutely barmy.

It mostly consisted of a pair of thick, comfortable leggings, a cute (albeit short) summer dress (it pretty much covered my bum and that was it) and a rotating duo of cardigans.

Unfortunately, before I really knew what was happening, I started adding soccer socks (on top of the leggings), big doc marten boots, chunky mens sweaters, and really outrageous scarves to the whole shebang.

I looked a bit like a cross between Daria, Blossom, and Claudia from the Babysitter’s Club.

The only thing missing was a giant hat with a bunch of fake flowers stuck to it. I mostly just wore old-school Canuck’s toques and a pink beret.

In my opinion, (and to the many, wide-eyed, confused individuals, who saw me wearing this in public places)- this is not a very good look.

For anyone.

(Or at least not anyone over the age of fourteen. In 1992.)

The day after I defended, Mr. M (ever the gentleman) very politely asked if I could never , ever, wear any one version of the getup ever again for the rest of my life.

I very respectfully (not to mention eagerly) agreed to do so.

I’ve also stopped eating 7/11 baked goods.

( But you can pry my penny candy from my cold dead hands.)

So there you have it my darlings. A (very bleak) fashion confession from yours truly.

Okay, so I have scoured my archives for a digital copy of my "going out outfit" and couldn't find one (good thinking on my part it would seem.) So please accept this as evidence of some of the silly things I do like take photos of my hairdo before going to work so I know what it looks like.

And I would like to make it very clear that when I do offer critiques on this here blog spot, they are never done with any malicious intent, or mean spiritedness. It is a way for me to deconstruct my relationship with the fashion industry, and how both my choices as a consumer, and my (evolving) taste aesthetic inform not only my perspective of the industry, but also of myself.

I spent a lovely afternoon with my sister in-law V on Sunday, and she remarked that she thinks there are lots of people out in the world who probably wish they could try on some of the more, well, unique outfits available for purchase at different stores, but never have the nerve or gall to follow through.

(To which I say (of course) is: GO FOR IT DUDES! It’s a TON of fun!

She also remarked that the salespeople probably spend quite a while speculating on who will even purchase the store’s crazier merchandise when its shows up at the store.

And just like them, I so desperately want to know who, if anyone, is out there is purchasing the strange apparel I’ve come across in downtown Vancouver.

And if I find out, I won’t have the heart to pass judgment.

After all, they’re probably just in the midst of finishing their PhD.

And their pajamas are still in the wash.

Tie a yellow ribbon

Today the sun came out.

This was truly brilliant.

Although I spent the majority of my day running around like a chicken with her head cut off, bopping around the city in taxi cabs, driven by semi-mad (and generally intolerant of all other motorists on the road) middle aged men, or otherwise glued to my computer screen sending out fourteen (give or take) different types of invitations to a 2,000 person gala event I am in the midst of organizing – just seeing those magnificent rays breaking through the ever-present cloud cover was downright magical.

Hello friends! It's been so long.

I am also happy to report that over the last two days I have felt a real shift in the air.

The cold in the mornings is less biting, less sharp. I can hear chickadees calling out to one another, echoing off the dew dappled branches, in harmony with the early hum, and buzz, of the world waking to a new day.

The air smells a little sweeter.

The wind blows a little warmer.

I can sense the cherry blossoms waiting to emerge from their long winter rest, and I can almost imagine a time where I can run about in sundresses and pedal pushers, ride my bike in flip-flops, and wear sunglasses at least every other day.

I am aware that I may be jumping the gun here, but I am so ready to herald the arrive of spring, I become giddy at the mere thought of any day where the temperature moves into double digit territory.

A girl can dream, right?

It was this giddiness that brought me back to H&M on Thursday to try on a few of the pieces that had caught my attention last Friday, and of course – the newly arrived merchandise.

This activity alone led to a full on laugh attack smack dab in the middle of my change room.

Seriously, I need to meet the principal buyer for this store, because based on their choices I wouldn’t know whether to shake their hand or send them to the loony bin.

Do not pass go. Do not ever work in the clothing industry again.

While I was putting on my outfits I was literally shaking with laughter – hooting and snorting like some crazed owl-pig hybrid.

To paraphrase those dude bros from LMFAO, who put it ever so wisely: I’m sexy and I know it BUT I LOOK COMPLETELY BARMY.

Now, don’t misunderstand me here – I am completely aware that I am a bit of a jerk (and a half), repeatedly showing up at this store with the express intention of only trying on clothes (clothes that nobody in their right mind has the business of buying) and never purchasing anything.

I am always especially aware of this fact after I’ve just spent a good chunk of my time in the store, careening about the change room, blinded by laughter, while chronicling the entire escapade with my camera phone.

Also, that this is, for sure, the definition of weirdo, hands down, bar-none, I am sure.

And yet seriously folks, as much as I am aware of my complicity in this whole charade, it still unnerves me to think about how all this merchandise (expensive merchandise at that) does end up going somewhere (and that place certainly is not the Lower Mainland Goodwill), which then makes me think that I shouldn’t feel like such a wanker, because I am not the one buying all these incredibly strange, over-priced articles of clothing.

And what I really start to think about (once my laugther has died down) are what (I perceive to be) the pros and cons of the fashion industry, and what I’m finding more and more to be its overall transient, fickle, and seemingly arbitrary nature.

Despite, of course, my slightly-wavering love for (what my aesthetic dictates to be) beautiful, beautiful pieces.

(This is where the whole endeavor gets a little sticky, you see.)

Like Heidi Klum has said, hundreds and hundreds of times: One day you’re in, and the next day you’re out.

People will spend over one hundred dollars on a suit jacket that they may wear once, that will not be a style a week from Saturday, just because they can.

The privilege and excess that the entire industry is built on, is truly astounding.

Plus so much of the clothing is not only completely unflattering, but downright BIZARRE.

Okay, so you could argue that the really bizarre thing is going and trying on clothing and taking photos of yourself (headless at that.)

Yet, despite the fact that my own actions don’t exactly connote a healthy level of sanity (I am aware that all the young, dispassionate individuals working at the store probably hate my guts) I’m hoping that my commitment to an academic deconstruction of the women’s fashion world (or at least some in-depth selfrefleciton on my own relationship with the industry) will make my actions less objectionable.

Or at the very least be enough to keep both of my feet firmly planted in the “sane” swimming pool of life (which isn’t all that deep, let me tell you) and not swimming laps with the dudes who are purchasing this:

Ummm. BANANA-RAMA.

Or this:

Do my pants remind you of a race track finish flag?

Okay, let’s go back to the first one and take one more look at that shirt:

When I retire to Florida, I'll wear many shirts like this.

(P.S. I am definitely wearing pants in that photo despite the fact that it looks like I’m not. Dodgy stuff here folks!)

When I showed this snap to Mr. M he was so incredibly distressed at the idea of this piece of clothing even existing he was pretty much at a loss for words.

While I felt like a cross between a big band leader and a detective from Miami Vice (and maybe also an extra from a Janet Jackson video circa 1989), he just thought that I looked absolutely deranged.

“Who would possibly think that a flesh toned suit would look GOOD?”

Who indeed.

But more than that, I am still wondering about where all those pieces of clothing go. Who is purchasing them? And who is manufacturing them? And what about designing?

And how do I feel about asking all these questions, if I myself am purchasing other pieces of clothing from the store?

Case in point, I ended up purchasing this sweater:

Love, love, rainbow love!

Am I, at the root of it all, stifling creativity, both on a design end, and a consumer end, when I lampoon these pieces?

Should it matter at all to me what people spend their money on, and how they dress?

While taking part in this one-side dialectic makes for some interesting thought patterns, most of the time I just end up feeling like such a grumpy, old fool.

So then should I, a self-assessed (at times) stodgy, bad-tempered prat, just let the crazily-dressed kids play all they want on my lawn, especially if they are wearing lemon coloured suit jackets, with tapered, zippered pants, hounds-tooth leggings and sheer metal crop tops?

I don’t have the answer to that one, dear readers.

Not yet at least.

But come spring, I’ll be on the lookout for these outfits. And the answers they might provide.

And also chickadees.

I’ll be on the lookout for them too.